


A Gentlemen's Agreement

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen, pre-DH, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape and Draco come to an understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gentlemen's Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> Gen. For Anj's birthday.

**Written for rosesanguina's birthday, August 2004.**

The boy swings up to touch the raincloud-filled sky, silver hair blowing into his eyes. He smiles at the watery sun, green cotton robe twisting around his ankles, its newly ripped hem catching once, twice, on the mud-encrusted heels of his black boots. He arches his back, bends his knees, tightens his fingers, urges the contraption of weathered grey wood and thick, twisted rope higher and higher.

A slight breeze stirs the branches of the tree above him, eases momentarily the choking thickness of the muggy August afternoon. The earthy scent of rain and dirt hangs heavy in the atmosphere; a thin ray of sunlight forces its weak way through the clouds.

With a shout of delight, the boy leaps from the swing at its zenith, flailing his arms as he tumbles through the air. He lands on the damp, perfectly manicured green grass with the muffled thump of a Cushioning Charm under his hands and knees.

He frowns up at me. "What'd you do that for?" he asks, pushing his hair back with plump, grubby fingers as he clambers to his feet. A smear of sweaty dirt mars his pale forehead, blades of grass cling to the now wet folds of his robe.

"I rather doubt your father would have appreciated my watching his only heir shatter a limb in such a reckless manner," I say, slipping my wand back into my pocket. I fold my arms over my chest and give the boy my best cross glower. He rolls his eyes, too familiar with my demeanour to be overly distressed by my glare.

"Father'd not care. He'd just tell the elves to stop their blasted caterwauling and give me some Skele-Gro." The boy gives me a petulant frown. "'Sides, it's not as much fun that way."

"Indeed." I regard the repulsive little five-year-old in front of me, taking in the boy's grass-stained robe and rumpled hair. He stinks of sweat and dirt and childhood. My nostrils quiver in distaste. "You reek."

The boy shrugs and plops down on a riverstone wall lining one of the lawn's myriad flowerbeds, wrinkling his nose. "So do you."

"Filthy little brat." I pluck a clump of sod from his sleeve and toss it into the bed's freshly turned loam. I frown at him. "I daresay your mother will not be happy to see you in your current condition."

He shoves a mud-streaked finger through a small tear in the sleeve of his robe. He sighs as he wiggles his fingertip. "Mummy's never happy to see me." He cuts his eyes towards me and grins slyly. "Dobby''ll fix me up."

I grunt. "Speaking of whom, to where has the inept elf disappeared this time?"

"The gardener's hut." The boy kicks his heels against the wall and looks quite pleased with himself. He scrapes a dirty, broken fingernail across the rough stone beneath him, pulling at the mangy patch of yellow-green moss covering the wall.

I fight back a surge of familiar irritation at the boy's matter-of-fact announcement, at his smug look of satisfaction so like Lucius'. "And what, pray tell, would he be doing in there? I was not aware his duties included gardening. I should rather think he had his hands full keeping you from mischief."

Calm grey eyes meet mine. A thin lip curls. I am obviously a fool, but, as is evidenced by a thin pink welt still raised upon the curve of his pale neck, manners have been beaten into the boy for too long to allow him to point out that fact. I grit my teeth; it is not my place to comment upon his father's disciplinary choices. And knowing the brat, the mark was most assuredly deserved.

"He's locked up."

"By whom?" My shoulders tighten. Obnoxious children seem to by my cross to bear in this wretched life. Particularly this brat.

The boy is silent, his heels still pummelling the stones beneath them.

I sigh. My patience is wearing thin. "Why?" Like Lucius, the boy is reluctant to give out more information than he deems necessary. He will be in Slytherin, I realise at that moment. His father will be delighted.

"He made me angry." The narrow mouth tightens. He lifts his pointed chin as if daring me to chastise him--the Malfoy heir--for his actions.

Yes. Most assuredly Slytherin. A worthy addition to our ranks. I find myself both anticipating and dreading the day he joins my House. "How so?"

"He wanted me to take a nap."

"And so you locked him in the shed?"

"I'm not sleepy." Said with an aloof shrug.

The boy's logic astounds--and annoys--me.

I stomp over to the hut. He trails behind me on stubby-gangly legs. Even before I reach the neatly swept brick path, I can hear the blasted elf pounding upon the door, its sobs muffled but clear. I frown at the boy.

He rolls his eyes and plops down on the grass, pulling a small stone amulet from his pocket. He rubs the green-black rock against his robe, polishing it. Malachite. My mind slides down the list of minerals tucked away in its corners. Ah yes. Stone of protection, often presented to children as a talisman against danger and illness. The charm given to the brat by his maternal grandmother upon his birth. One of his many treasures, such as the fossilised frog skeleton he discovered this past spring and forced me to deconstruct for him.

I pull at the hut's door. It sticks. No mere lock, this. The boy has done magic. Again. No doubt about his acceptance to Hogwarts. Not that there had been even a whisper of such since the brat's conception.

After all, he is a Malfoy.

I swear--under my breath but loud enough for the boy to hear. He looks at me with interest.

"What does that mean?"

I reach for my wand. "It means that if this bloody door does not open I shall string you from the stable rafters and beat you with a riding whip."

He sulks. "Father won't--"

"I do not give a tinker's damn about your father at the moment." I tap my wand against the doorknob. "Alohomora."

The door flies open, the distraught, tearstained elf tumbling out. "Master Draco, sir, Dobby is--" It stops at the sight of me and cowers. "Mr. Snape," it mumbles. It turns and slams its wrinkled forehead against the doorjamb. "Bad Dobby! Letting Master Draco bother--"

"Oh, for God's sake." I pull the elf from the doorway before it obliterates what small amount of mental capability it has left. "Cease that."

The elf stops immediately, blood trickling down its temple. It hiccups, blinks.

I turn on the boy, robes swirling. "As for you, you wretched brat, I daresay you ought to be caned--"

He leaps up, eyes wide at my anger. He grips his talisman tight.

"You won't tell Father, will you?" He looks up at me, uncertainty gleaming from those pale grey eyes. He touches the welt on his throat, flushes. His fingers curl around the collar of his robe; he tugs. "Dobby won't--" He shoots a malevolent glare towards the trembling house elf. "--if he knows what's good for him." He glances back at me, brow furrowed, mouth sulky. "You won't, though?" he repeats anxiously. "He'd be angry with me if you were." Another worried look. "Are you?"

I consider nodding but catch myself. I scowl at him instead.

He looks panicked. A nervous bite of his lip and he glances down at his clutched fist. He hesitates a moment, then shoves the malachite at me. "A trade then. A--" He stops, thinking hard. "A gentlemen's agreement." He looks quite pleased with himself. Obviously a term he has overheard his father using.

My fingers close automatically on the talisman, still warm and sweaty from his touch. I can feel the faint thrum of magic whispering within the rock.

The boy nods and bows stiffly, formal beyond his years, as befits the heir to House Malfoy. I hide an amused smirk, school my face to remain impassive. I return his bow. "An agreement. Yes."

My silence has been purchased.

He straightens up, his eyes finding mine. He studies me for a long moment, then one corner of his mouth quirks up.

"Teatime, Draco!"

Narcissa's voice drifts across the garden. She leans over the rose-draped terrace wall. "Severus, do forgive my son for waylaying you." She frowns at the boy. "Your father has been expecting the professor."

The boy looks chagrined for only a moment before curling his lip. "He spoke to me first."

I snort.

Grey eyes sparkle up at me for an instant before he dashes across the grass towards the house.

"Do not run!" Narcissa snaps. Her son immediately slows. She glances back at me, eyes cold. "Lucius is in the library."

I nod and watch as mother and son enter the house, Narcissa scolding the boy on the state of his robes as the elf skulks behind them. The tall French doors close with a snap.

I look down at my hand, uncurl my fingers. The tiny green-black banded stone glitters up at me. _An agreement. Yes._

I glance back at the empty swing, now creaking quietly in the breeze.

I close my eyes.

_The boy swings up to touch the raincloud-filled sky, silver hair blowing into his eyes._

He smiles at me.


End file.
